


Closer to the Bone

by alwaysamy



Series: End!verse [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-21
Updated: 2010-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-13 22:59:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/142654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alwaysamy/pseuds/alwaysamy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel may not have much angel mojo left but he needs Dean to know he's still useful. And he wants to believe that Dean still needs him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Closer to the Bone

**Author's Note:**

> Part of my very loose End!verse. Mostly porn, though.

It takes four days after his wrist is broken for Dean to get so irritated that he snaps at Chuck. Castiel is fairly certain Chuck was holding back tears, although he knows he should pretend he didn’t notice.

He waits until Dean has slammed into the upstairs bedroom they share at Bobby’s to confront him. “Will you let me help now?” he asks, sitting down on the bed.

“Help with what?” Dean’s mouth is twisted into a sneer, and it’s ugly. Castiel looks away as he continues. “Saving the world? Finding God? That hasn’t worked out real well so far, has it?”

“Dean.” He sounds tired, even to his own ears, and he is. He has very little grace left, not even enough to heal Dean’s broken wrist. Every day he feels more human, and it aches, it itches, it stings, and above all it limits everything he can do. He can understand now why Dean’s injury infuriates him.

“What’re you going to do, Cas?” Dean turns to face him, and above the dark growth of beard his eyes are dull, far away. “I’m pretty sure your time-traveling mojo is kaput.”

It’s been a year since Dean and Sam parted ways, and Dean regrets every day of it. Castiel knows this as well as he knows the freckles on Dean’s face, the cowlick where his hair spikes in one errant direction no matter how much gel he applies. He doesn’t need his grace to understand it, either.

“I can wrap your wrist properly so you could take a shower,” he says, and watches Dean’s face for some reaction. A flicker of relief, perhaps. A moment of gratitude, or at least interest. “I could shave you.”

Dean reacts to that, at least, with a snort and a raised eyebrow. “You think I’m letting you near me with a razor? Think again, buddy.”

“I’m not completely without skill,” Castiel argues, and doesn’t bother to keep the wounded pride out of his tone. If anything, what tires him the most is Dean assuming he’s useless now, except in his bed. “And I know the beard bothers you.”

Castiel likes it, personally -- this is what Dean would look like left alone, a man in the wild. His hair is longer now, too, and when he’s naked, his scars dark against his pale skin, Castiel’s handprint still raised red on his shoulder, he looks shockingly primitive.

When Dean is silent for too long, Castiel looks up. Dean is actually considering it, his gaze lingering on Cas’s face, and his jaw’s furious, tight line is finally softer. “All right,” he says, and bumps his knee against Castiel’s. “Show me what you got.”

Castiel waits while Dean showers, seated on the closed toilet as the room fills with steam. It’s November, and Bobby’s house is drafty, too old to be insulated correctly. Castiel has never felt the cold before, and Dean warns him the South Dakota winter will only get worse. For now, he sits in a pair of Dean’s old jeans, cinched at the waist with an even older belt, and a plain white undershirt, enjoying the wet warmth of the room as Dean sloshes in the shower.

Dean’s thinner now, beneath muscle that has only got harder and longer since Castiel first raised him from hell, as if he needs the strength to carry the additional weight of the world’s doom. But he’s shed too much of himself in the process -- his humor and his hopefulness have drained away as well, and Dean is as brittle now as the warped old glass in Bobby’s windows.

The shower stops with an abrupt squeak from the faucet, and Castiel stands up, taking a towel from the shelf and holding it out when the curtain parts. Dean scrubs at his face and hair first, shaking like a wet dog, and steps out onto the bathmat to rub it briskly over his body, one-handed and a little awkward.

He doesn’t bother to tuck it around his waist when he’s finished, and Castiel isn’t sure he can, one-handed. He sits on the towel instead, and tilts his face up to give Castiel an imitation of his usual grin. “Let’s do this thing.”

He’s bluffing, and Castiel doesn’t need his grace to know that either, but he ignores it. As reckless as Dean is with his body, he’s become even more guarded about revealing his vulnerabilities to others, and Castiel knows that better than anyone. He fills the sink with warm water and takes a new disposable razor and the shaving cream from the medicine cabinet.

Dean taught him how to do this, when it became clear that he would have to, unless he wanted a full beard himself. Dean taught him everything he knows about being human, much more than simply how to care for the body he supposes is his alone now. He can’t help thinking that his body belongs just as much to Dean, although he doesn’t know if he’ll ever admit that to Dean.

He turns the tap on again, wetting a washcloth with hot water as Dean unwraps the taped plastic bags from the cast on his right wrist. Stray drops of water cling to his chest and his shoulders, and Castiel thumbs one away before he presses the cloth to Dean’s face. Dean peels it away after a moment and drapes it over the sink, pointing to the shaving cream.

“We’re good to go, I think.” His voice is gruff, low in his throat, and Cas turns away as he shakes the can. Dean sounds the way he does when he’s aroused, when they’re alone together. The way he used to anyway. It’s been a few weeks since Castiel has heard that voice, or since Dean has done more than fall into bed at night fully clothed and asleep only moments later.

Castiel uses one hand to angle Dean’s head up, thumb beneath his chin, and the other to spread the thick foam over his cheeks and jaw. It’s creamy, warm in his hand, and Dean’s eyes fall closed as Castiel works it in. His shoulders loosen as Castiel spreads the lather evenly, and a deep breath gusts out of him.

Castiel’s heart squeezes tight in his chest. Right now Dean is naked in a way that’s more than his damp, bare skin, the soft flesh of his cock between his legs. He’d forgotten what it feels like to realize that Dean trusts him.

He swishes his hands in the basin of water, swipes the razor through it. Dean opens his eyes just as Castiel is turning with the blade in his hand, and despite the sleepy, half-lidded eyes, he can tell Dean is alert. Not on guard, but aware, waiting.

The air seems thick with more than steam as Castiel carefully takes his slippery chin between thumb and fingers, turning his head to bring his right cheek center. His heart is stuttering nervously, a horribly awkward sensation, but he breathes through it, steadies his hand, and raises the blade to Dean’s cheek. He starts in the hollow below his cheekbone and above the hinge of his jaw, and drags it down carefully. Dean makes a soft, indeterminate noise, but Cas ignores that, too, and keeps his hand moving.

It isn’t until he needs to tilt Dean’s head back farther to shave below his jawline that Dean’s good hand moves off his thigh, the backs of his fingers brushing Castiel’s jeans before grabbing hold loosely. He lets Castiel adjust the angle of his head, though, and doesn’t move as he drags the blade down his throat. His eyes are closed again, damp lashes gummed into stars, and his pulse flutters beneath Castiel’s fingers.

Castiel has never felt more powerful, or more humble.

He works slowly, rinsing the blade as he goes, watching as Dean slowly relaxes. He doesn’t let go of Castiel’s jeans, but Castiel isn’t sure Dean is even aware that he’s holding onto them anymore. He’s completely pliant otherwise, head moving loosely wherever Castiel points it, his breathing deep and even in his chest, and he never flinches, not once.

Castiel is so hard by the time he sets down the razor and wets the washcloth, he’s fighting to keep himself from trembling.

Dean opens his eyes as Castiel rinses his face, holding a towel beneath his chin as he squeezes the wet washcloth over his cheeks and chin. He blinks and tilts his chin up as Castiel pats him dry, and his mouth opens as Castiel runs the back of his fingers gently over one cheek, testing.

“Nice and smooth,” Castiel says, surprised at how rough his voice sounds. He swallows when Dean lets go of his jeans to move his hand higher, up under his shirt to the bare skin above his waistband. His thumb moves back and forth steadily, slowly, stroking, and Castiel can feel it everywhere, low heat bleeding into his skin.

“Thank you.” Dean slides closer, leans forward to rub his cheek against Castiel’s belly through the soft cotton. “Feels good.”

Castiel shudders when Dean turns his head, rubbing the other cheek against him, his fingers tighter around Castiel’s hip now. He wants to drop to his knees, but Dean is holding him up, even as he bends at the waist, his cheek sliding down Castiel’s abdomen to his groin. When he buries his nose there, breathing against the heavy length of Castiel’s erection, Castiel can’t help groaning.

“Dean ...”

“Let me,” Dean says, and Castiel can’t say no to the vibrato in his voice, to the blood-flushed swell of his cock resting against his naked thigh. He’s done this to Dean, and he will always take whatever Dean wants to give him, even when part of him wants the Dean he knows so well to fight through, to stand up and take, to push Castiel to his hands and knees the way he’s done so often before. This Dean is almost more frightening than the angry, disillusioned man who stomps through the scrap yard and cleans his guns with cold, unerring efficiency.

Dean is already letting go of Castiel’s hip to unfasten his belt, flick open the button on his jeans, nuzzling Castiel’s belly as he pulls down the zipper. Castiel helps him, even when Dean growls low in his throat, and pushes the denim and his briefs down out of the way. The fabric rubs rough over the head of his cock, and he shudders again as Dean noses toward it, mouth open and lips wet.

The first touch of Dean’s tongue is startling, cool and delicate against the underside of the head, and Castiel sways a little, grateful when Dean’s fingers wrap around his hip again. He’s not sure he’ll be able to stand it if Dean teases -- he’s too aroused, fine thrills singing along his nerves, and he wants. He wants so much, to kiss Dean, to peel away the rest of his clothes and fit himself along Dean’s body, to fill his mouth with Dean’s erection, to spread himself open for Dean’s tongue and fingers and cock, to rut against Dean’s leg or into his mouth. It’s overwhelming, a fast-forward loop of images and instincts, and as Dean closes his mouth around the head, sucking hard, Cas has to close his eyes and grab the sink to keep his knees from buckling.

Dean’s fingers dig in, vicious and hard, and Cas groans, stumbling forward a step and twining his fingers in Dean’s hair. If the contented hum that vibrates in Dean’s throat is proof, it’s what Dean wants, so Castiel lets go of the sink and buries the fingers of his other hand there, too. He can feel the muscles in Dean’s jaws working as he sucks, a vague ripple beneath his thumbs, and tries to focus on that instead of the soft wet darkness of Dean’s mouth, the glorious pressure as Dean sucks harder, opening his throat to take more.

It’s been ... he doesn’t know how long anymore. The last time Dean touched him was weeks ago, a brief, nearly vicious fuck against the hood of an old Ford out in the yard, and Castiel brought himself off, his hand cold and too dry on his dick. He can’t remember the last time Dean sucked him. He can’t even remember the last time they kissed.

Dean grunts as he lets his hips jerk forward, just an inch, deeper into the heat of his mouth, but the sound is pure approval. He moves his bare foot, rubbing it against Castiel’s socked one, and he hooks his other calf behind Castiel’s knee to keep him close. He’s drooling now, his shaved chin wet. He’s working his tongue just there, flicking it against the heavy vein on the underside of Castiel’s cock, and orgasm rushes up, sudden and fierce. It blazes along Castiel’s thighs, unfurling in his belly, and he breathes, “Dean ...” as he starts to come.

Dean grunts again, a wet choking noise as Castiel spills into his throat. It feels endless, jerking pulses of sensation, and it’s an effort to uncurl his fingers from Dean’s hair. Dean keeps sucking, softer now, until he’s got just the head in his mouth, and Castiel finally shudders and pulls free. His belly is sore, the muscles startled and tight, and he’s too sensitive now, the nerves in his cock burning with each gentle lick.

He takes a step backward as Dean looks up at him, licking his lips clean. He’s flushed, still hard, and Castiel drops to his knees, hands already pulling Dean’s thighs apart. But before he can lower his head, Dean grabs his jaw with his good hand. His kiss is salty and hot, incredibly wet, and Castiel groans into his mouth. Dean pulls away just long enough to whisper “Like this” against his lips, and brings Castiel’s hand to his cock before he thrusts his tongue inside Castiel’s mouth again.

Dean fights it for a minute when Castiel tries to tug him off the toilet, until he understands and sinks down beside him, where Castiel can lay them down. The floor is cool, still damp, and his pants are tangled around his calves, but he ignores it all as he wraps his hand around Dean’s cock and starts to stroke, still kissing him.

Dean is shaking, panting into his mouth, thighs tense as Castiel jerks him off. He wrestles away for a minute to grab Castiel’s hand and lick it twice, hot and sloppy, before he puts it between his legs again, and Castiel groans into the hollow of his neck as he starts to stroke again.

“Cas, Cas,” Dean pants, and Castiel lifts his head to find Dean’s mouth there, his tongue licking into Castiel’s mouth hungrily. It takes less than a minute after that, Dean grunting and trembling on the floor beneath him, and then he gasps out something that sounds like Castiel’s name again. His head hits the tile with a distinct thud as he starts to come, thick, searing spurts of it all over Castiel’s fingers and his own belly, one splatter just inches below a rigid brown nipple.

Castiel cleans it up gently, and closes his eyes when Dean catches his sticky hand and brings it to his mouth, sucking it clean finger by finger. When he’s done, Dean props himself on one elbow, shaky and smiling, and kisses him again.

“Dean,” Castiel says, rubbing their cheeks together after a moment. He’s sweaty and uncomfortable, despite the echo of pleasure still pulsing in his muscles, but that’s not what he wants to say. “Dean ...”

Dean presses a finger to his lips. “Shhh.” The sound vibrates against Castiel’s cheek, and he relaxes as Dean winds his good arm around his waist, fits them together closer, chest to chest, hip to hip, one bare foot lazy as it strokes Castiel’s ankle.

This, then. Castiel will take this, if it’s all he can have, for as long as Dean will offer it.


End file.
